


Burning

by INMH



Series: hc_bingo fanfiction fills 2018 [35]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1918 Influenza Epidemic, Brothers, Drama, Epidemics/Pandemics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, References to Background Character Death, Siblings, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-08-29 19:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16749907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: 1918 is a bad year for everyone, including Theseus.





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Let's play "spot the Vampyr reference", because everything happens in the same universe; so sayeth me.

_I’m dying,_ Theseus thinks as the world melts and reforms at the edges.  
  
In the clearer moments, the dim interior of the infirmary is comprehensible: Men hack and gag, wheeze and moan- worst are the ones that make no noise at all, lying still in their beds. If Theseus could concentrate long enough, he knows he would be watching and waiting with morbid curiosity to see if their bodies are covered and carted off during the next nurse’s round.  
  
As it is, Theseus can’t concentrate at all. His vision keeps going fuzzy, and sometimes when it focuses again the light in the room’s changed and he’s pretty sure hours have gone by without him noticing. He’s overheated; at some point he kept kicking the sheets off him to alleviate it, but now he’s too weak to do so and suffers in silence.  
  
Nurses and doctors in hospital masks come and go. “Where’d you find this one?” One nurse asks a man in a driver’s uniform as they stand at the foot of Theseus’s bed.  
  
“Somewhere ‘round St. Martin’s,” The man mutters. “Fellow was stumbling around mumbling about salamanders, and then he passed out.”  
  
**_Scamander_** _,_ Theseus protests silently. _My name. **Scamander.**_  
  
He pushes to remember why it was he had even been in that part of London, or why he’d been mumbling his own name- perhaps he’d been looking for help? Not that it would have been far: Influenza is everywhere, and any pedestrians would have been hyper-alert to his strange behavior. Maybe he collapsed. Maybe that’s why his head hurts so bloody badly. Someone hacks painfully a few beds over, and Theseus sees a blanketed form twist and turn and curl in on itself. His own lungs don’t feel wonderful, but he’s not coughing uncontrollably- yet. His body aches and burns, but for now that’s all.  
  
Theseus drifts off again.  
  
He wakes again, this time to the sound of weeping; a woman is bent over a bed across the way, sobbing hysterically as her hands pat at the sheet-covered body before her. Theseus lifts his head, squinting in the darkness: The woman is young, and as most of the men he’s seen in this ward are on the younger side as well, he would bet she’s a sister or a wife. Eventually a nurse comes along and tries to quiet her, probably out of a mix of sympathy and a desire not to disturb the remaining patients.  
  
The woman is still whimpering when Theseus passes out again.  
  
His dreams are a swirl of distress: Scenes from the war, prone bodies on an endless row of beds, flashes of green and red spells as his heart pounded and his clothes soaked through with sweat. He vacillated between complete incoherency and a vague awareness that these were night terrors, nothing that could actually, currently harm him. Once or twice his eyes must have opened, because scenes from the infirmary penetrated as well: Bodies being carted in and out, the thick haze of illness, nurses and doctors making their rounds, and Newt-  
  
Newt?  
  
Theseus blinks, stares at the person sitting on the edge of his bed. “Newt?”  
  
Newt smiles weakly. “I’d ask if you’re alright, but that sounds like a stupid question.”  
  
Theseus is having trouble keeping his eyes open. “What’re you doing here? You’re back from Ukraine?”  
  
Newt shrugs. “The program was canceled,” He said simply. “The dragons kept trying to eat everyone.”  
  
“You don’t say,” Theseus remarks, the depth of his sarcasm lost in the hoarseness of his voice.  
  
“Mother and father hadn’t heard from you,” Newt continues, fidgeting with a loose thread on his coat-sleeve, “They were worried something had happened. I’ve poked around a few hospitals looking for you.”  
  
“What’s this one?”  
  
“Pembroke,” Newt supplies. “It’s packed a bit tight. All the hospitals are.” He twitches slightly. “London’s in a bad way.”  
  
“Yeah.” Theseus shuts his eyes, forces himself to open them again.  
  
“I’ll ask,” Newt says, sensing Theseus’s exhaustion, “If we can’t get you transferred home. They probably won’t object to freeing up a bed, and mother and father will probably be able to help you through the rest of it.”  
  
“Mhm.” Theseus reaches out, hand shaking badly, and pats Newt’s knee. “Thanks, little brother.”  
  
Newt hesitates- he’s not a touchy-feely sort, not really- but then gently pats Theseus’s hand. “Right then. I’ll go talk to them, you go ahead and rest.”  
  
“A’right.”  
  
Theseus shuts his eyes, a little calmer at the thought of going home.  
  
_At least it will free up a bed._  
  
-End

**Author's Note:**

> Well, Rowling said wizards could cure any Muggle illnesses, not that they were immune to them. And I don’t believe for a second that the Wizarding world could just snap their fingers and cure the 1918 influenza strain.
> 
> (What I’m trying to say is that if JK Rowling comes out and says ‘aw yeah the 1918 influenza epidemic didn’t do anything to the magical community they cured that shit in like ten seconds ~~and then left millions of others to suffer and die because 'even with all this magic we STILL couldn't figure a way to slip a cure to the muggles whoops sorry'~~ I’m going to flip a fucking table.)


End file.
